


and now we're ready for the ending (the story's over)

by futurearmadillomother



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (i am joking nothing but mad respect for that lovely chaotic lad), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, M/M, Morning Routines, Post-Canon, Sharing a Bed, because fuck you jonny i do what i want and they get to be happy, literally the softest goddamn thing, not beta read because i want to die on my feet not live on my knees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:27:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28332351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/futurearmadillomother/pseuds/futurearmadillomother
Summary: Jon doesn’t think he could ever get tired of any of this. Every smile Martin gives him feels like a slice of a forever he still struggles to think he deserves to have. Every mug in their cupboard, every penny in their “honeymoon 2” jar, every morning he wakes up scarred but not defeated, fills him with an overwhelmed sense of gratitude.----(title is from "Don't You Worry" by Oh Wonder and "Maybe" by half-alive)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 10
Kudos: 86





	and now we're ready for the ending (the story's over)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Splashattack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splashattack/gifts).



> This is for my amazing spouse, Henrie! They are literally so talented and I love them so much it blows my mind! Every day I am thankful for the time I randomly dm'd them at 4am not realizing we were mutuals (and our subsequent elopement). Merry Christmas <3

Jon doesn’t think he could ever get tired of any of this. Every smile Martin gives him feels like a slice of a forever he still struggles to think he deserves to have. Every mug in their cupboard, every penny in their “honeymoon 2” jar, every morning he wakes up scarred but not defeated, fills him with an overwhelmed sense of gratitude. 

That’s not to say that everything is always easy. He and Martin have lived through enough to know that stolen solace is only half as comforting as true peace. Not that he’d ever dismiss what they shared in Scotland; nothing will ever be quite the same as that blissful month where the world seemed to stop, but that time can’t help but be overshadowed by the period after when it actually did. Nothing will ever quite replicate that feeling, but as he kisses Martin awake and moves out of bed to make them both coffee before heading to work, he can’t help feeling like this is better. 

He leisurely moves about the kitchen, placing toast in the toaster but not starting the cycle, grabbing eggs and butter from the fridge and placing them next to the stove, finding a skillet in the drawer under the oven, and starting the stove burner with a click, watching the butter melt and sizzle in the pan as he cracks four eggs into a measuring cup. After flicking some water into the skillet to make sure it's up to temp, Jon pours all four eggs into it, dusting the tops with a healthy amount of salt and pepper, puts on the lid, and leaves them to cook, grabbing a cup of coffee and sitting at the table.

He rests for a few quiet moments before he hears Martin shuffle out of the bedroom, pour himself a cup of brew and start the toast before joining Jon at the table. Martin is almost pointedly not a morning person, but he still likes feeling like a helpful part of their morning routine, and if Jon does most of the culinary legwork in the mornings, Martin more than makes up for it with dinner. Besides, if Jon starts the toast as he makes the eggs, then it just gets cold and the butter doesn’t melt well, and if he doesn’t start it right at the beginning, he’ll forget. It’s a win-win--though Jon doesn’t think any routine with Martin could be anything less than a win, really. Except garbage duty, but they don’t talk about garbage duty. 

(They have a calendar of who’s supposed to do it when, which is apparently “completely ridiculous, Jon, can we please be adults about this?” 

“Martin, we are. Plenty of adults make chore charts!”

“For their children! When they’re in primary school!” 

“We’re not arguing about this, Martin.”

“I--fine. Fine.”)

Jon reaches his hand across the table and lets it linger there. “Morning.” 

Martin sips his coffee and grabs Jon’s hand with his waiting one, running his thumb over Jon’s knuckles as he continues to blink awake with a contented smile.“Morning, love.” 

They sit there for a few moments, listening to the sizzling of the eggs and the electric hum of the refrigerator. Before Scotland, Jon had always worried that he’d bore Martin with small talk he didn’t want, and fought to stay silent against all that he wanted to say. While they were in Scotland, he rambled to Martin about anything that came to mind, trying to weigh Martin down like he was a stray balloon that would float back into the Lonely at any vaguely inattentive moment. After the change, when silence came it was suffocating, interrupted only by intermittent screams. Now, though. Now they have all the time in the world to say what they want, and leave the rest to breathe. 

The toaster dings, and the toast hops briefly before settling back into its slots. Jon pushes off the table to grab two plates and a butter knife and place the toast on them, bringing them back to Martin. He butters them dutifully while Jon pulls a spatula out of the drawer left of the stove and cuts the eggs into squares as he walks back to the kitchen table. He places one egg on each piece of toast, places the skillet back on an empty burner, and goes back to join Martin for breakfast. They savor it before going back to their room and getting ready for the the day. 

As Jon changes, he can hear the shower turn on. Martin always likes morning showers, but with Jon’s longer hair, he likes to wait until the evenings so he can let it dry overnight. Georgie half-jokingly bought him hairnets once when they were dating, but he couldn’t stand the plastic on his scalp and the weak elastic always ended up slipping and getting the crown of his head wet anyway, which just makes for a horrendous amount of flyaways. He knocks on the door to let Martin know that he’s coming into their bathroom before brushing his teeth and hair. Martin’s humming a deep, slow tune to himself that Jon can’t quite identify. Whatever it is, it’s beautiful, and just on the right side of repetitive so he can tune it out. 

“I’m about to start on the dishes, love. Holler if you need anything?” 

Martin stops his song to hum in acknowledgement. “Sure. Almost done here anyway.” 

One of the beauties of the routine is they’ve managed to split it up so both of them don’t have to do something they find draining too early in the morning, their strengths lining up like cogs in a pair of particularly clingy gears. He scrubs at their plates softly as he waits a few more minutes for the pan to cool. The cooking supplies are a source of pride for them, but they were insanely expensive, and while Jon and Martin have a rainy day fund, he’d rather not break them needlessly. Placing their dishes on the drying rack, he goes to the sofa to check he didn’t forget to pack anything in his work bag last night. He idly turns on the news for some ambient noise as he puts his hair in a top knot and waits for Martin to finish getting ready to go. 

“Prepared for the big, bad world?” Martin teases him, leaning on the sofa behind him with two travel mugs, handing Jon the green one with his coffee in it. Jon sips it gratefully before standing up and grabbing Martin’s hand as they head for the door. 

“It’s got you in it. How bad can it really be?” 

Martin scoffs in disbelief. “Right, so do you actually want me to answer that? Because I think we’ve proved the answer to that question is pretty fucking bad if you take a second to think about it--” Jon waves him off as he shoves the door open and they head down the staircase to the ground floor.

“Yes, yes, if you want to get technical, I would agree with you there.” He pretends to think, tapping his chin. “And yet, I seem to recall someone telling me I was their world, so I don’t exactly appreciate the insult that sparked this debate in the first place, Mr. Blackwood-Sims.” 

Martin flushes slightly. “Quoting my proposal is against the rules, Jon. I didn’t think I’d need to tell you that.”

“Yes, well, I’m notoriously forgetful these days, dear. Excuse my slip in etiquette.”

Martin smirks. “Quite out of character. What’s gotten into you, eh?”

They continue to banter on their way to the Tube, just in time for their train to pull into the station. Martin’s stop is first; after the Eye closed on the world, he’d decided to give library work another shot in a less eldritch context. He says it’s nice to be surrounded by that many harmless words. Plus, it gives him free access to a weekly writing workshop where he’s started to share his poetry. Jon always enjoys coming to the reading events and seeing how proud of his work Martin has become. 

After Martin kisses him goodbye, Jon pops his earbuds in for his longer commute and flips through the podcasts he’s been into recently. Martin likes fiction podcasts, but Jon prefers stuff he can zone out to and not be lost on three episodes in. Eventually he settles on Sawbones. Peppy enough to not put him back to sleep, informative enough to keep his mind busy as he finishes his coffee and reaches the school. 

He’d never pinned himself as the teacher type, more of a theoretical academic, but after years of gaining knowledge and then promptly being told to put it in a box and not act on it in any way, formal academia had sort of lost its appeal. Melanie said the forced interactions with people ambivalent to his presence were good for him. “Keeps you nice and humble.” But in each of his classes there were enough students interested in the material to make it worth the effort, and he finally got to make use of his history minor as an added bonus. 

(Decidedly not a bonus were the kids who were either new enough to not know the unspoken rule about pestering him about his scars, or were chaotic gremlins who didn’t care. 

“Mr. Blackwood-Sims, what happened to your hand?” 

“Nothing to do with the Silk Road. Any more questions? Yes, Marguerite.”

“What about your throat?” 

“...I fail to see how that question is any more on topic. Anyone else?”)

The day finishes out in its typical fashion, and Jon heads out to the tube an hour or so after school lets out for the day. It’s almost ridiculous to think he used to stay overnight at work some nights, now that he has someone to come home to. 

When he makes it back home, he puts the tea kettle on as he settles down on the couch to get started on grading his student’s term papers. He starts separating them into stacks by the hour, with a separate stack for the students who inevitably forgot to put their class period on their project. He’ll cross-reference those with his attendance book once he’s finished with the ones with proper formatting. Sipping his tea and engrossed in his grading, he snaps out of the zone when he hears the door softly click shut. 

“Home, love,” Martin calls out as he tugs off his shoes and leaves them by the door. “Oh. Didn’t realize you were right here, sorry. Wouldn’t have yelled if I had.”

Jon feels a smile spread across his face. “No worries. I could probably use a break from grading hell anyways. How was the library today?”

Martin exhales slowly and goes to sit on the sofa next to Jon, putting his feet up on the one corner of the coffee table that isn’t covered in papers. “Not too bad! Had a storytime volunteer ditch at the last minute, but that just meant I got to handle some sweet kids for about twenty minutes. All in all, pretty boring, though. You?” 

Jon starts putting his graded papers back in his bag. “Same, pretty much. Had a couple more questions about scars today. Honestly, I think they’re just doing it to get a rise out of me at this point. Maybe I should start coming up with ridiculous answers to give them next time they ask. Don’t think they give a shit at this point if the answer is true, just that they get one.” 

Martin’s eyes light up and he laughs. “Yeah, that’s one way to go about it. Not sure how you’re going to get a crazier explanation than flesh worms though.”

“I married a poet, didn’t I? Maybe he can help me figure something out.”

Martin smiles and shoves Jon’s shoulder. “You don’t have to keep flirting with me anymore. I know I’m a catch, but I’m caught! You’ve caught me! I’m hopelessly ensnared. You’re worse than Tim at this point.” Jon gasps in mock-horror.

“Take that back, Martin.”

“Or what, love?” Martin playfully taunts.

Jon leans forward and stage-whispers, “I’ll sabotage your eggs tomorrow morning. They’ll be mushy. Raw, even. And I’ll burn your toast.” 

“You wouldn’t.” 

Jon smirks as he sips his now lukewarm tea. “Do you really want to test that theory?” Martin is silent. “Imagine it. Rubbery, gooey eggs on charcoal bread.” Inspiration strikes, and he delivers the killing blow. “I’ll put curry powder on the butter.” 

“You wouldn’t be able to have good toast either!” Martin protests.

He leans back against the arm of the sofa. “Sacrifices must be made, Martin. Dry toast is a small price for vengeance.” They hold tense eye contact for a few moments before breaking into helpless giggles. After their laughter dies down, Martin pushes his hands off his thighs and stands up, heading towards the kitchen. 

“Right, well. Fun as that was, I really should get started on dinner. I was thinking pasta with asparagus, mushrooms, and feta? Maybe some lemon juice?” 

“I’d add some garlic too, but sounds good. Want a hand with chopping?” Jon asks, quickly putting the rest of his work back in his bag and pushing himself off the couch to trail after Martin. 

“There’s not that much to do, love, really. If you’re itching for something to do, maybe just wash everything and mince the garlic, I suppose.”

They continue to chat about whatever strikes their fancy as dinner comes together, moving back to the sofa to eat once they’ve finished. Jon inhales his noodles as Martin surfs through Netflix trying to find a documentary they won’t hate; eventually he settles on an elephant-centric one that he’s convinced will probably end up making them cry by the end. Jon leans on Martin’s chest and tucks his feet onto the couch, listening contentedly to Martin’s steady breathing and stealing handfuls of popcorn. 

The movie doesn’t disappoint, and he can feel Martin sniffling underneath him as the baby is reunited with their pack-- apparently with elephants it’s called a ‘memory’, the more you know--and the credits start to roll. Jon strokes Martin’s hand soothingly. 

“Nice and cathartic?” he asks nonchalantly.

Martin chuckles wetly. “God, yes. Can’t get me to believe that wasn’t at least a little bit staged, though.” Jon hums in agreement. 

“I mean, people watch documentaries to learn, but they’re all pushing a narrative. Some are just better at hiding it than others.”

Martin laughs. “That’s for sure. Melanie sent me another History Channel aliens documentary to watch and I can’t wait to bully her about their ‘evidence’ once I’ve seen it.” He blinks as if he’s just realized something. “You haven’t showered yet, have you?” Jon waves at his very dry, not washed hair with a “what do you think the answer to that question is” gesture. Martin very maturely sticks his tongue out at him. “Well, smart-ass, go do that. I’ll meet you in bed.” Jon sighs again dramatically, pries himself off Martin, and patters off to the bathroom. 

\----

When he emerges from the bathroom, towel-drying his hair, Martin is already underneath the covers, engrossed in a Virginia Woolf he checked out of the library a couple of days ago. Jon gets into bed and starts to finger-comb his hair before braiding it over his shoulder and tying it off. Leaning on Martin’s shoulder, he scrolls on his phone for a while, adding some new skirts to his wishlist for tax rebate day. Martin continues to thumb through his book with one hand, playing with the loose hair at the base of Jon’s scalp that fell out of his braid. Jon loses himself in the feeling, lightly dozing on Martin’s chest and listening to him occasionally flip pages.

“Jon?” Jon hums faintly. Martin softly kisses the crown of his head, and he manages to blink his eyelids open. “I’m about to turn the light off.” Jon reluctantly retreats to get his pillow and scooches closer to Martin as he pulls the lamp string. He throws his arm across Martin’s chest and rests his head on Martin’s shoulder, slowly tracing a pattern in Martin’s faded shirt to the drone of their tower fan in the corner of the room. He can feel Martin also start to relax underneath him, and then they’re drifting together, each resting in the secure knowledge of what the coming morning holds.


End file.
